


Fell On Black Days

by squibli



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 9x18, Angst, Coda, M/M, Mark of Cain, Missing Scene, Season 9, i guess, meta fiction, more of an implied thing, tiny bit of destiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-30
Updated: 2014-04-30
Packaged: 2018-01-21 10:39:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1547678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squibli/pseuds/squibli
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somewhat missing scene inspired by 9x18, Meta Fiction; Dean's struggle dealing with the mark of Cain's side effects.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fell On Black Days

**Author's Note:**

> I guess this would add additional days to the episode's timeline. Idk. The atmosphere fit with the episode. And thanks to all the positive comments on my last fic, they helped while writing this one.

In all honesty, Sam probably shouldn't have left him alone in the bunker. Either his brother really didn’t see all the alcohol Dean was putting away, or he chose not to acknowledge it. He knew Dean was dealing with the mark his own way, and if Dean had to figure, his brother was probably just glad he wasn’t out killing everything that gave him a dirty look. Sam had been out for a couple of days on a poltergeist case. He wouldn’t have gone, but it was a mother and son that finally gave up and called for help. Apparently the son couldn’t sleep in the house anymore and they didn’t have family that could take him. _He’s so fucking soft hearted for that shit_ , Dean mused wearily.

He really thought about calling him, just to check in. _But if Sam cared_ , he thought, _Sam would call. Sam would make the same I’m-worried-about-you-but-I-don’t-know-how-to-say-it noises, and I’d just say I’m fine._

Dean’s arm throbbed and he winced. This diseased bloodlust was becoming harder to stifle, the empty whiskey bottles littering his bedroom floor doing nothing to stop the rising tide of red behind his eyes. The headache was permanent now, only subsiding in the rare moments when he could wrap his hands around some poor Purgatory-bound bastard’s throat and watch the life drain out of their eyes. Sam didn’t like to watch. Dean had started to notice Sam slipping away whenever it came time to do the disposing. He realized he didn’t mind.

The last inch of liquor glinted amber in the light from his lamp. Dean didn’t want to drink it, didn’t want to expend the effort to raise the bottle to his lips and swallow. He did it anyway, trained not to waste a good whiskey. He tossed the bottle to the side, aiming for the trash bin, but missed spectacularly. It shattered against the wall, sprinkling the corner of his room with tiny glass fragments. The sound was a sadistic melody in Dean’s head. His hands shook a little. He took a deep breath, willing the overblown curses to stay trapped in his throat. _Shower. Now._

Dean pushed through his room and into the bathroom across the hall, nails scraping on the wooden door, searching for the knob. _Fuck, fuck. Fuck._ His fingers, feeling too warm for comfort, wrapped around the cold metal handle and twisted, and Dean nearly fell forward into the sink. The sudden bright white of the tile and walls burned his eyes; he leaned back against the door and heard it click and lock behind him. He wondered absently if this was what addicts felt like. And then he wondered if this was what his brother felt like when Dean and Bobby had locked him in the panic room.

“I’m sorry, man,” Dean breathed, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. _No, you did this to yourself, Dean._ Even in his head, Sam always disapproved.

Dean leaned into the shower and pulled the tap, turning it as far as it would go on the cold side. He opened the medicine cabinet and started searching for anything to make the pain go away, and, as he suspected, Sam had taken out the heavy stuff.

“You bastard.”

He settled on ibuprofen. Dean’s fingers trembled as he struggled to push through the foil on the blister pack. His head pounded out his erratic heartbeat in his ears, the running water doing little to drown out the sound. The air felt too warm, his lungs too small, his skin too sensitive.

“Damn pills, why’d they have to wrap ‘em all like fuckin’ sardines…fuck,” he cursed raggedly, dropping the pack on the tiled floor. It bounced and slid underneath the vanity. Dean dropped to his knees, hissing sharply when he felt the impact travel through his aching legs. He swiped his hand underneath the cabinet, but no luck. _Fucking hell, really?_

He sat back on the floor, sliding back until his head met the wall. Forgot the shower was still running.

His racing pulse breathed a mantra in his head, “Cas, Cas, Cas, Cas.”

Dean wondered if the angel could hear him; if prayer was a viable option again. He would know what to do. He would fix it, make everything all right. Dean wouldn’t have to have this thing living inside him anymore. He didn’t care about Abaddon. Or Crowley. He didn’t care who won or lost. This poison had seeped into every inch of him, and he felt hopeless. Dean idly watched the dark space underneath the sink, willing the ibuprofen to come back out.

\---

He heard a soft tap on the bathroom door. His head twisted around and it felt like his heart would blow inside his chest. There was no way he was dealing with some evil thing right now. And how it managed to get inside the bunker was beyond imagining. Dean reached up to the sink and pulled down a toothbrush, snapping the head off. It was a piss-poor weapon, and he wasn’t sure he could aim straight anyway if he had to.

“I know you’re in there, Dean.”

Dean let out the breath he’d been holding. _Cas, it’s just Cas._

_It’s just Cas._

His eyes went wide and he used the wall to help pull himself up, reaching for and again missing the doorknob. Dean tried again and caught it, popping the lock free and wrenching the door open. Castiel stood there, silent as ever now that he wasn’t human, and looked him over. The corners of his mouth drooped a little more.

Dean took in a shaky breath and caught the edge of one of Cas’s sleeves, pulling him in. “I know you can fix this. Right?”

The angel let himself be led, shaking his head, “I don’t think so, Dean. You did it to yourself.”

“Don’t fucking tell me that, I’ve been hearing Sam say it all damn day,” Dean spat, roughly pulling the door closed once the angel was inside.

Cas watched Dean bounce anxiously around the bathroom. “Sam isn’t here. He hasn’t been here for some time.”

“Don’t I fuckin’ know,” he mumbled.

“You’re sick, Dean. You need to sleep,” Cas said quietly.

Dean spun around and grabbed the angel by the throat, shoving him against the wall. Spray from the shower misted his skin. “I can’t fucking sleep, Cas, otherwise I would be,” he seethed, squeezing tighter. Castiel wasn’t fazed. “I can’t stop hearing Sam and his irritating worried whine, he won’t stop asking how I’m doing . . . I really couldn’t give a shit.”

Cas dropped his gaze and examined the mark on Dean’s arm. It did look more inflamed than usual.

“Don’t start telling me you’re worried, too,” Dean whispered, following the angel’s eyes.

Castiel’s eyes flicked up to Dean’s for a moment, then back down to the mark. “Of course I’m worried. I wish you wouldn’t have done it. Cain told you what it would do. Why do you think he lived in the middle of nowhere all alone?”

Dean let go and backed into the sink. His shaky hands knocked over pill bottles from earlier, tablets tumbling off the counter and down into the sink drain. They tinkled cheerfully on their way down the pipe. “So you’re saying I should be a hermit?”

“No, Dean, I’m saying I don’t know what’s going to happen to you.” Cas closed the lid on the toilet and sat down, resting his elbows on his knees. He looked up at Dean with a sort of morose stare that Dean didn’t like at all. That look meant someone was screwed. And this time that look was directed at him.

The air in the bathroom was suffocating. The cool mist from the shower did nothing for Dean’s feverish skin. The high-pitched buzz from the fluorescent lights was too loud in his ears. He slid down the wall next to the sink, crushing the suddenly too colorful pills on the floor with his boots. Dean felt like he was going to be sick. Violently sick. He closed his eyes.

“Can’t you do anything?”

Castiel was silent for a moment. “I heard you, you know.”

Dean opened his eyes a fraction and immediately wished he hadn’t. A new wave of pain flooded through his body. “That wasn’t what I asked,” he muttered, burying his face in his arms, trying to block out the white of the room.

“No, but you wondered.” He reached out to take one of Dean’s arms, seeing the veins flutter with his racing heart. His fingers smoothed over the mark, feeling its intense heat burn on Dean’s skin.

“I really don’t know, Dean. I’m sorry.”

Dean suddenly jerked his arm out of the angel’s grasp and fisted his hands in Cas’s coat, dragging him off the toilet and onto the floor on his knees. He held him to his eye level, their noses just barely touching.

“Just fucking do something, Cas! Anything, please,” he shouted. “I can’t do this anymore, I don’t think you realize that!”

Castiel found he couldn’t look in Dean’s eyes anymore, red around the edges, bloodshot on the inside, and instead focused on a freckle on his lip. “This is beyond me, Dean. I can’t help you this time.”

“Don’t say that.”

Cas put his hands over Dean’s still shaky ones and pulled them away gently. “We’ll just have to see how it plays out.”

He held Dean then, tightly at first until he’d calmed down. Cas stuck his hand underneath the cold shower spray and brought it back to rest on Dean’s forehead for a moment, his overheated skin instantly wicking away the cool water.

“Can you put me to sleep, at least?”

“Not forever, no.”

The water dripped into his eyes and he blinked slowly. Dean wanted a drink now more than ever. “That wasn't what I asked.”

“Isn’t it?”

\---

Castiel held the door open for Dean, watching him stumble into the dark of his room. Glass crunched under his feet as he followed. Dean rolled onto his bed and buried his face in the pillows. Cas didn’t turn on the lamp. He didn’t want to see how many bottles there were in here.

“Cas?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you have to leave?” Even muffled, his voice still came out shaky.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I have work to do. I’ll explain later.”

Castiel went back into the bathroom, shut the shower off, fished the ibuprofen out from under the sink, and filled a glass with water. He carried it back and set it on Dean’s nightstand, popping out four tablets and placing them next to the glass.

Dean turned his head to the side, his eyes dim. “I don’t need those anymore.”

“You will later,” Cas said, sitting on the edge of the bed. “I can give you a few hours. I don’t know what you’ll feel like when you wake up.”

Dean nodded into the pillow. Castiel raised his hand.

“Cas, I’m sorry about the yelling and everything.”

His fingers stilled, an inch above Dean’s warm skin. “I know you are.” He pressed down, feeling the caustic tension in Dean’s body ebb.

Not wanting to linger, Castiel left the way he came, pulling another bottle of whiskey out of the cupboard and setting it on the kitchen table as he went.


End file.
